


Enough

by tarysande



Series: Rose Trevelyan [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For now there is this, and them, sweet words and soft kisses, and it is enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

Cullen is already most of the way in love with the Inquisitor before he realizes his feelings run far deeper—far more tender—than is precisely proper. He is certain he is not the only one; with her infectious laugh and kind heart and incisive wit, she is easy to love.

In her Great Hall, the whispers are almost always positive. In her tavern, glasses are raised in her honor a hundred times a day. The reports crossing his desk are full of carefully documented asides, notes about agents she’s won to their side, lists of resources made available to the Inquisition. Reading between the lines, he knows each of these new resources comes to them because she took the time to help someone who needed it.

On the rare occasion he brings one of these missions up—“Shepherding a lost druffalo home, Inquisitor? Truly?”—she waves it away with a delicate hand, joking about how she was only looking for another rare bottle to add to her collection, or a Fade rift to close, and thought she might as well help as not. He knows the truth behind these deflections, of course. She gives of herself to any who ask it, and though she has not faltered yet, he dreads the cost should she continue at this pace. Even she must have finite resources. Even she must have limits. He offers what he can—a shoulder, a kiss, his own competence—because it is not his place to stand between her and the darkness she faces, no matter how much he might like to.

She is a mage. He was a templar. The old compulsion to protect at all costs, to be the blade and the smite, remains strong, though he has daily proof she can take care of herself, and if demons tempt her or taunt her, they are quieter than the ones still haunting his troubled dreams.

She reminds him of the unbroken boy he once was, the blushing and stammering dreamer who wanted mages and templars to be friends, who wanted everyone to get along; the boy he thought murdered by Uldred and his host of demons and burned to ash by Meredith’s iron-fisted obsessions. A hand reaching for his, lips pressed to his cheek—so effortlessly, so guilelessly—bring that boy back to life, and yet Cullen needs only look at her as she lies sleeping beside him, flat on her back with her heart bared to the world, limbs outstretched, so open even here when she’s at her most vulnerable, to know what horrors the demons would torment him with, were he once again trapped inside that cage of despair.

And Cullen knows, oh he _knows_ , when Corypheus strikes, he will not limit himself to taunting.

Maker help him, he is terrified of losing her, and not only—not even _mostly_ —because of the irreparable damage it would do their cause. So, he brings her armies and victories because flowers are not enough, and without thought of blasphemy or sacrilege, every kiss is a prayer pressed into her skin. For protection. For luck. For safety. _Please,_ each touch says, _I will do all I can for you here, but please come back._ Every returned embrace of hers says, _I’ll try_.

He cannot, will not, ask for more, but faith is harder when one stands to lose so very, very much.

After an absence from Skyhold longer than anticipated—something about the discovery of ancient ruins; he hasn’t had time to fully absorb the report she sent from the field—she invites him to her quarters instead of meeting him in his. _Dinner?_   says her note, the script saved from elegance by the swiftness of her hand. _Private?_

He thinks himself early when he arrives and finds her room empty. A fire crackles in the hearth, though all the windowed doors are flung open, admitting the cool mountain air. Her pack and staff lie where she obviously dropped them upon returning; her clothing is strewn across several pieces of furniture, marking her path. He follows these breadcrumbs and finds her wrapped in a fur-trimmed robe, slippered feet tucked underneath her, upon a blanket spread on one of her balconies.

His heart lifts at the sight of her, and a little of the ever-present worry eases, lightening the burden bending his shoulders. Though scouts send messages back to Skyhold every time she passes through one of their camps, it has been weeks since he last saw her face-to-face; he had almost forgotten how bright her hair is, how slender her shoulders. Her face is hidden from him, buried in one of the books liberated—without the Seeker’s knowledge, Cullen thinks, though wisely doesn’t ask—from Cassandra.

It’s foolishness, perhaps, but he cannot halt the quick, instinctive scan, his gaze darting from head to heel, looking for anomalies. The commander searches for injury while the lover probes for weariness or heart-sickness or distress. He finds nothing to alarm him and releases the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. This soft exhalation brings her head up. Setting aside her book, she is smiling and rosy-cheeked, the curls framing her face still damp from her bath. She lifts an eyebrow and he knows he’s been caught out. She pats the blanket next to her. He obliges her at once, settling at her side with a creak of leather and armor.

The reprieve from comment is brief. She presses a fingertip to his face, directly between his brows. “You’re worrying,” she says gently, without accusation.

“Less than I was,” he replies. “Now.”

Leaning forward, she places a kiss on the spot still warm from her finger. The knot of worry eases a little more, and the furrow eases. He’s grown too accustomed to frowning. Her expression says she knows it, but instead of a reprimand, she merely winks and says, “That’s a little better.”

He replies by cupping her cheek in his hand and bringing his lips to hers. _I’m right here_ , her kisses say, _be here with me._ He is not one to argue. Worries have their place; this blanket on this balcony with this woman in his arms is not one of them.

“A lot better,” she amends, when they reluctantly break for breath. Her robe has slipped, baring one pale, freckled shoulder and just the hint of the curve of her breast. His eye lingers overlong, and she laughs.

“If that’s what you’re thinking, you’re rather overdressed, Commander,” she says. “I don’t suppose you’d consider losing at least two or three of those layers?”

“I might be persuaded,” he returns in kind, already reaching for the clasp of his mantle.

“Oh, good,” she says. “I didn’t drag a whole room’s worth of pillows out here for nothing, and Maker, I’d be lying if I said this book hasn’t given me ideas. That Varric. Goodness.”

“Chapter Four?” Cullen asks.

A blush heats her cheeks, and she laughs like he’s startled her, but she’s grinning. “I was thinking that bit in Two, but if you’ve your heart set on Four, I can be flexible.” The smile slips sideways into a smirk just a shade shy of fully impish. “Quite literally.”

“Just as well,” he murmurs, reaching for her even as she begins to lean toward him. Mouths and hands meet in the middle, and though the world will still be on the brink of ending tomorrow, though in a day or a week she will leave again to pit herself against the enemies who wish to see that darkness succeed, for now there is this, and them, sweet words and soft kisses, and it is enough. It is enough.


End file.
